The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair
by Gale Force
Summary: A hopefully madcap and fun cross-over between the Man from Uncle and NCIS. Action, adventure, a little romance...
1. Chapter 1

**The Gibb Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 1.**

Gregori Kuchenko let his field glasses drop to his chest and raised his arms over his head. "Da! Da!" In moments of joy he was apt to revert to his native tongue. He was not feeling particularly joyful at the moment, but his grand-daughters would expect him to be feeling that emotion, and he must not be seen to be acting strangely.

LaToya Brown, one of the Old Dominion Lady Monarchs, had just sunk a three-pointer which had given her team a last-second win over the Tennessee Lady Vols - a feat that had not happened since 1996.

Although Kuchenko was a wealthy man he still knew the value of a dollar in this, his adopted land, and his season tickets at the Ted Constant Convocation Center were in the nosebleed seats. He liked it up there, as he was able to watch all the players run the floor and see the various defensive and offensive sets they ran. However, he was never without his field glasses so that he might get a close-up look of one of the players. Kuchenko had been happily married for thirty years and had grand-daughters the same age as these players, but one was never too old to enjoy the sight of a beautiful woman.

"We want to go get her autograph," Mia, one of his grand-daughters said, in her perfect and unaccented English. She'd been born and raised in Norfolk, as had her sister, Sandra.

"Run along," said Kuchenko. "I will see you at the car in half an hour, eh?"

"Okay, granddad."

The two girls hurried down the stairs, clutching their programs in their hands. They were not intent on getting the autographs of the Lady Monarchs of course, but of the Lady Vols and in particular of the Lady Vols legendary coach, Pat Summitt.

Kuchenko watched them on their way... feeling a tightness in his chest. So young. So innocent. Their entire lives in front of them. Nothing must happen to them.

He rubbed his hand over his eyes. What could he do, what could he do? This was so cruel, to be retired for thirty years and then to be reactivated, by an organization that he had thought had died a long time ago...and its members seemed to be just as brutal now as they were then.

Well...that was to be expected. Mankind as a whole had certainly not changed in thirty years...why should his old comrades?

But he couldn't do what they wanted...he wouldn't....

Kuchenko lowered his hand, his eyes dull. He had to. He had no choice.

The crowd had thinned out now, except for the huddle of people around the table where Coach Pat Summitt sat, signing autographs and exchanging pleasantries with the fans. Kuchenko had never liked to walk through crowds...all too easy for someone behind you to slip a knife between your ribs and then escape scott free.

Kuchenko rose to his feet and headed down the stairs, utilizing his cane to good effect. He had no use for a cane...at least, not one that involved having a weakness in either of his legs or a problem with his balance...

He reached the ground floor and turned toward the exit. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a face... lined, aged...but recognizable... it wasn't _possible_. It couldn't be... a man he hadn't seen for thirty years...not one of his, but one of _theirs_.

The face belonged to a man, dressed in a tweed suit and wearing some silly hat, standing beside a rather strange looking woman with her black hair in pigtails and a ... yes, a spider's web tattoo on her throat.

The woman was speaking. "Ducky, Ducky, that was just incredible. The Lady Vols don't get beaten, they just don't! We've witnessed history here today."

Kuchenko was a fast thinker and acted on impulse. He also believed in karma. To have run into this man, after thirty years...while at the same time being thrust into such terrible trouble by his own side...it was meant to be.

"Ducky," Kuchenko cried out (for he dared not use the man's real name). He hugged the man with typical Russian exuberance. With his ears close to the other man's ear he hissed, in Russian, "I must speak with you, Kuryakin. I _must_!")

Kuryakin stared at him, an expression of shocked surprise on his face. "I...I...it's nice to see you, too."

Brilliant British accent, Kuchenko thought.

"Come, Ducky," he said. "I have my granddaughters with me, so I can't stop. How can I get in touch with you? We must talk about old times."

"Oh, well..."

Kuryakin, looking flustered, patted his hands over the pockets of his jackets, then pulled out a card. "Here. My card."

Kuchenko took it without looking at it and slipped it into his own breast pocket.

"I will call you, Ducky."

He gazed at Kuryakin intently, then turned and limped quickly away.

Abby Sciuto and her colleague and friend, Donald "Ducky" Mallard, were in Norfolk, Virginia attending a conference at the Norfolk Naval Yard. Abby had persuaded Ducky to accompany her to the Lady Vols game, and now they were waiting in line for her to get Pat Summitt's autograph.

"Who was that, Ducky?" Abby asked curiously.

Ducky looked after the limping man and shrugged. "I have no idea."

"Why did you give him your card, then?"

"Well," Ducky took a deep breath. "I don't really know. He just seemed to be in trouble."

"How exciting," Abby said happily. "And he came to you for help? Buy why you? Why here?"

Ducky shrugged again. "I don't know. I suppose I'll find out when he calls me."

"Yeah...anyway...wasn't that a great game...?"

Abby continued to talk about the game, and Ducky looked up at her, after sparing one last glance after the limping man who had now disappeared down the corridor. How...odd.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Gibb Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 2.**

One man still remained in one of the seats, just a section over from where Gregori Kuchenko had been seated. He and his two companions had drawn straws...he'd gotten to watch the game while they had had to sit outside in their SUV.

Carlton Forbes - for such was his name - toyed with his cell phone. He'd just finished calling Simonson and Davidenko, his colleagues, to let them know that their quarry was leaving the building but had left his grand-daughters behind, and had witnessed Kuchenko's encounter with the individual whom he had called "Ducky."

It had looked entirely innocent, and probably was, Forbes thought sourly. Indeed, Forbes thought sourly of this entire project. This Kuchenko was an old man...at least 70. What possible use could he be with Project Polaris?

Still, he had been given very strict instructions. _Anything _to do with Kuchenko was to be recorded and reported.

Forbes meandered down the steps, and as he passed the man with the felt hat, he took his photo with the cellphone. For added good measure, he took a photo of the man's female companion.

Then, Forbes walked out into the sunshine. As he walked toward his motorcycle, he called his companions again.

"Anything?"

"No... he is sitting in his car. He looks as if he's waiting for someone." came Simonson's voice.

"His granddaughters. They're getting an autograph, but they were just done as I passed them...indeed..." he stopped speaking, as the two girls teetered past him in their high heels, talking excitedly.

As Forbes straddled his motorcycle, he sighed heavily. Not for the first time, he wondered if their boss were simply testing his team, assigning them to this very simple task just as some sort of test. True, they were new recruits to this new organization... well, this _old _organization which was beginning to hatch again... but their "street cred" as the Americans called it should have already been established.

Nevertheless...they had their orders and must follow them.

Quickly, while he waited, he dialed his contact's phone number and emailed the two photos he'd just taken. By the time he'd done this Kuchenko and his SUV had pulled out of the parking lot, followed at a respectable distance by Simonson....and then by Davidenko in a car of his own.

In order to follow anyone, a minimum of two vehicles was required. If the quarry became suspicious of one car, it would peel off and the second car would take its place.

As he sat on his cycle, he saw the old man and the young woman walk past him and enter into a car of their own. The woman was driving. On a whim, Forbes decided that he would follow _their _car, just to see what their next destination was. If for some reason that old man _was _of importance, he would be ahead of the game.

Forbes grinned, coldly. Ahead of the game was where he always liked to be.


	3. Chapter 3

(Note, if you like, please review. If you don't like, constructive criticism always welcome!)

**The Gibb Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 3.**

The room was huge, and it needed to be. Gigantic computer screens ran across the front wall. On some of them were tracked the paths of the hundreds of satellites in orbit around the earth. Others featured the locations of the spaceports or tracking stations of each developed nation.

In front of the screens were row upon row of command consoles, each one occupied by a man or woman with an intent look on their faces, as they tracked, recorded and analyzed the information pouring into their earbuds.

At the very rear of the room, a beautiful woman, in her early 40s but looking much younger, stood, resplendent in red leather jacket and slacks. Her high-heeled boots gave her not-inconsiderable height an extra two inches. She stood with arms crossed, looking over the scene.

Her earbud buzzed. "Madame Sapphire," came the voice of her French secretary, "The Director's meeting is starting now."

"On my way," Sapphire said very quietly.

She returned to her office, through that of her secretary. As she passed through, Natalie handed her a cup of coffee and a brioche.

Comfortable at her desk, Sapphire took a quick bite of her brioche, then pressed the button that lit up the entire fourth wall of her office. One half of this newly revealed screen was taken up by the face of the Uber-Director, who was called Vulcan. The other half of the screen quickly resolved itself into eight squares featuring closeups of the faces of eight people, each one a satrap in the THRUSH organization, as was Sapphire herself. Each one was located in a city in a different country, in charge of their own project, and each Monday they met in this fashion to report on their progress.

As the other satraps reported on their projects, Sapphire munched discreetly on her brioche and sipped coffee. "Blah blah blah." Could Satrap Vertiliuzzi's voice be any more annoying? His delivery more dull? His project more unimportant?

An old hand at this, Sapphire had placed her laptop computer right beside the camera recording her for the meeting, so that she could look at it discreetly while her colleagues around the world chattered away, and still look as if she were paying attention to them all.

Sapphire reached down and tapped on the wireless keyboard on her lap, and brought up her email program. Time to see if anything had been accomplished by the two teams she had sent out into the world.

Ah, yes... a message had been forwarded to her from the Kuchenko detail.

Sapphire pulled it up...scrolled down to the two attached photos..saw the one of the man..froze.

She had seen that face a long time ago...on a bulletin board labeled "Most Dangerous - Kill on Sight" in her mother's office. She'd been granted a tour on Take Your Daughter to Work day...the first time she found out what her parents did for a living...

"You'll take over this one day," her mother had told her confidently, and she'd squared her little shoulders so proudly....

And six months later her parent's organization had been crushed and they'd had to flee into the night...and it had been this man...and his dark-haired colleague... who had brought it all about.

"_Sapphire_!"

Sapphire looked up into the narrowed eyes of Vulcan.

"Are you with us, Sapphire?" asked the Uber-Director.

She hated it when he used that tone of voice.

Never apologize, never explain. "I have several items to report," she began smoothly...

Once the conference was over, Sapphire pulled up the photograph once again.

He was old, this man.._old_, doubtless long retired.. Perhaps confident that he would be able to live out the natural term of his life and that no ghosts from the past would return to haunt him.

Sapphire pulled out her cellphone and dialed, stabbing each number with a dagger-like fingernail, as if it were the heart of Ilya Kuryakin.

"Marcovitch."

"Marcovitch. You sent me an email from Forbes. It contained a photo of an old man in a felt hat. What is the history behind that photo?"

"Forbes and his team followed Kuchenko to a basketball game on the campus of Old Dominion University this afternoon. At the end of the game, as Kuchenko was leaving, he stopped by this man for a second or two, and that man gave Kuchenko a card."

"Is...that...so...." Sapphire said softly.

"Yes, ma'am. Forbes said it seemed quite innocuous, quite accidental."

"Ye-es...they have watched Kuchenko's every move to this point and his phones are all tapped, his emails all monitored, is this not so?"

"Yes, ma'am. Forbes' team is very good. It is highly doubtful that Kuchenko could have arranged such a meeting with anyone, without them having some inkling about it. It was therefore completely accidental. Probably. Nevertheless, Forbes decides to follow that individual, while his men stayed with Kuchkenko. He was driven to the Hotel Oceana, just outside the Norfolk Naval Base."

"The Navy..?" murmured Sapphire.

"Yes, ma'am."

Sapphire tapped her white teeth with one long, red fingernail.

Perhaps it _was _just a coincidence...Kuchenko and Kuryakin meeting. Coincidences were not allowed to be used in fiction but in real life they happened all the time. And it appeared that they were happening now. Which meant that fate was taking a hand in this business..it was meant to be...she would have her revenge on Kuryakin at last.

"Marcovitch. I want this man picked up. Very carefully - he is _not _to be harmed. Nor is anyone else. I want him to simply... disappear..from his hotel room, and taken to a safe place, where he is to be held in comfort, but from which he cannot escape. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Tell Forbes that he is a very dangerous man, very resourceful, and they are to use all care in dealing with him. They are not to put themselves into a position where they have to subdue him with violence."

"Yes, ma'am. I will make it plain to them."

"Thank you, Marcovitch. Let me know when he has been secured."

"Ma'am."

Sapphire flipped her cellphone closed, and laid it on her desk. Then, she permitted herself a brief chuckle.


	4. Chapter 4

If you like, please review!!!!

**The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 4.**

Special agent Jethro Gibbs sat in the break room at NCIS Headquarters, sipping coffee and reading a _Wooden Boats _magazine. As he turned a page, his cell phone buzzed. Gibbs reached for it and flipped it open. His forehead creased in curiosity as he saw his caller was Abby. She was in Norfolk attending a conference...why was she calling him?

Well, only one way to find out.

"Hello, Abby."

"Gibbs! Gibbs!"

Gibbs dropped the magazine and stood up, instantly alerted by the sound of tears, imperfectly held back, in Abby's voice.

"Abby, what's the matter?"

"It's Ducky! He's gone. He's disappeared!"

Gibbs blue eyes hardened into ice-cold chips. "Where are you, Abby?"

"I'm at the hotel! The Oceana! Ducky and I went to a basketball game this afternoon, and got back to the hotel about two hours ago. We were going out to dinner at seven, but he never came to my room. So I knocked on his door, no answer. I had the maid open up, and he's not in his room Gibbs! And all his stuff is gone. It's like he was never there!"

"Okay, Abby, hold tight. I'll get the team together and we'll be there in a couple of hours."

"Okay. Okay. _Please _hurry, Gibbs."

"You know I will, Abbs."

Abby disconnected. Gibbs ran a hand through his close-cropped hair as his mind worked through various computations. Finally, he dialed another number.

"The Mallard residence."

"Miss Rodriguez. Special Agent Gibbs here."

"Yes, Agent Gibbs?" said Ducky's home health care provider, who looked after Ducky's mother when he was at work.

"How's Mrs. Mallard today."

"She's much the same as usual, Agent Gibbs. Is something wrong?"

Gibbs grimaced. He didn't want to panic the woman unnecessarily. "Something's come up here, and it looks like Ducky will be delayed in Norfolk for a couple of days. I'm going to send over a couple of agents to relieve you. There names will be...Terence and Sapkowski. Make sure they show you identification, okay?"

"Very well, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs disconnected, then dialed another number, as he headed for the door and out into the hallway. "Yes, I want you to send agents Terence and Sapkowski out to the home of Dr. Mallard. You have the address. Simply precautionary. They're to stay there until Dr. Mallard returns or I say otherwise, understood?"

He flipped the phone closed just as he reached and strode into the office. "Get your gear, people, we're going to Norfolk." He grabbed up the stuff at his own desk.

"What for, boss?" asked DiNozzo, turning a smirking face away from Agent David.

Gibbs stopped for a second, and looked at his people. "It's Ducky. He's disappeared."

DiNozzo, McGee and David exchanged glances, and then very grimly they grabbed up their gear and followed Gibbs out of the room.

It was a long drive down to Norfolk. Usually DiNozzo would be chattering away, with a counterpoint by Ziva David and an occasional interjection by McGee, until Gibbs silenced them with a look or a retort, but not this time.

They all sat in silence, except for McGee, who had called up Abby so that she might not feel alone until they reached her. She was talking to him a mile a minute, venting, while he broke in on occasion to give her their distance from Norfolk. Ziva and Tony sat buckled up, their eyes closed so they might not see Gibbs' driving - for once they weren't complaining as he held the pedal to the metal, but they didn't want to see it - alone with their thoughts on what might have happened to Ducky.

****

Abby had not bothered to call the local police - that would be for Gibbs to decide once he arrived. What she did not realize was that the maid – who had witnessed her concern and reaction, and who had met Ducky and knew he had that room and was not scheduled to check out for another two days – had called the local news station, in response to their daily plea for "News of the Weird" news. A man disappearing from a hotel room, and leaving it behind as if he'd never been...did they think that qualified, she'd asked?

They did, and a reporter was soon dispatched. A reporter who was in tight with one of the security guards at the Oceana. The hotel had security footage of check-ins at the front desk – the tapes were kept for 30 days before being wiped and re-used. They were quickly able to find the footage of Ducky and Abby checking in - thanks to the maid's description of Abby's striking appearance, and a freeze-frame of Ducky's face was soon printed out. They left Abby alone -feeling that any news on her would detract from the story. Of course if she'd been sharing a room with the old man, that would have been a different - but the reporter had some ethics.

The reporter quickly returned to his desk with photo and notes and went to work. He'd have it completed in time to make the News of the Weird that very night....

****

Abby had been camped out in front of Ducky's door in a chair. She had jumped up when McGee informed them they had arrived in the parking lot, and now hugged Gibbs as the team arrived at the door.

"This is it, Gibbs," she told him. "He's been in this room for two days. His clothes were on hangers in the closet, he'd always laid on the bed with two pillows behind his back to watch TV during the day. Or read, knowing Ducky. I was in here before we left before the game this afternoon and I saw the way he'd arranged those pillows. And now look! The bed's made. His clothes are gone. His suitcases are gone!"

"Take it easy, Abbs," Gibbs said softly. "We'll find him." He looked at his team. "What are you waiting for? Get to work. Turn that room upside down. I'm taking Abbs over to the coffee house. Report to me there."

The Rendition Coffee House was located right beside the hotel. Gibbs sat opposite Abby in one of the booths, and ordered coffee for them both from the waitress.

"Okay, Abbs. Tell me about today. From the very beginning."

Abby took a deep breath, and began. When she got to the basketball game, she told about their meeting with the unknown Russian.

"At least, he sounded like he was Russian," she said. "His accent, I mean. He called Ducky Ducky, and hugged him, and said he wanted to talk to him. Ducky gave him his card. And the guy limped away. I asked Ducky who he was, and Ducky said he didn't know. He just said that the guy seemed like he was in trouble. I got that impression too."

Gibbs nodded, thoughtfully. "I'll want you to draw a sketch of him, Abby."

"Okay."

"Now, how about the conference? Anything strange happening there?"

"No. Same old same old. Some good speakers, some bad speakers. Lots of new information."

"And Ducky didn't meet anyone there? Know any of the speakers?"

Abby shook her head. "Not that I know of. He knew a couple by reputation, I think..but none to speak to."

Gibbs nodded again.

At that point, Ziva arrived, and slid in next to Abby, who scooched over to accommodate her.

"Nothing, Gibbs," she said. "There's no trace of Ducky at all in that room. No toiletries in the bathroom, nothing left in the closet or the dresser...no blood..or other fluids... found anywhere, either. No indentations in the carpet that would indicate a struggle, no chips on the furniture...nothing."

"It's like Cabin B-13," commented Tony DiNozzo, arriving at this moment. "Husband and a wife taking a cruise. Husband goes out one day, returns to find their cabin completely empty except for his clothes, and everyone on board the ship denied ever seeing her. Turns out that she'd been found to have the bubonic plague, and since they didn't want to have a panic on their hands, the ship's crew just made her disappear."

Gibbs glared up at him.

"Shutting up, boss," said Tony.

"There was one place they couldn't get into," said McGee, coming up on the heels of this line. "All hotels have safes in the closet. I had the night manager open up Ducky's safe, and found this."

He held up Ducky's ID for the conference.

Tony thought about pointing out to Abby that that proved that Ducky wasn't trying to gaslight her, but he thought better of it. Where the hell was Ducky!

"All right," said Gibbs. "McGee, get us rooms at the hotel. Tony, talk to everyone who has a room on that floor. I want to know everything about them. Ziva will help. McGee and I will talk to the hotel staff. Abby, I want you to stay in your room and work on your sketch of the Russian you met this afternoon. Tomorrow you and I will go to the conference and talk to the people who's lectures you attended. All right, people, let's move."

The team strode out purposefully, all except Abby and Gibbs.

"Come on, Abby," Gibbs said gently. "If someone had wanted to hurt Ducky, they would have left him in his hotel room after they'd done it. Whatever's going on, they're not going to hurt him. And we'll find him before they do anything else to him."

Abby took a deep breath. "You're right, Gibbs. You're right. Well, I'll get to work on my sketch."

Gibbs escorted her back to the hotel and saw her safely into her room. Then he headed for the manager's office, wishing that he felt as confident as he had just sounded.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Gibb Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 5.**

That night happened to be a slow news night, not only in Norfolk, Virginia but around the USA, and so the News of the Weird segment was picked up and eventually shown across the country.

(Despite its name, it was not news so much as a gossip column, and so in-depth research and correct facts were not required...they ran with what they had...)

The host of the segment, with a photo of Ducky spotlighted over his shoulder said:

"And, in a fascinating bit of news out of Norfolk, Dr. Donald Mallard, chief medical examiner for the Navy, is involved in a mystery of his own today. He was scheduled to attend the week-long Medical Technology conference being held in Norfolk, but after two days he has vanished from his hotel room, leaving behind no evidence that he'd ever existed..."

"Except the bill," chimed in his-co-host, a beautiful blonde with a supercilious smile.

"Yes, Cathy," smirked the host. "It seems Dr. Mallard has decided to fly south for the winter."

Of all those who saw that segment, several reacted in their own particular way.

**1. KUCHENKO**

Gregori Kuchenko had looked at the card that Ducky had given him as soon as he had returned home.

Doctor Donald Mallard

Chief Medical Examiner

Naval Criminal Investigative Service

with an email and a phone number.

Typical of Kuryakin to have established a new identity in a similar field to that which UNCLE had once inhabited....but medical examiner? That didn't suit the Russian's style somehow.

Nevertheless, Kuchenko had intended to find some way to get in touch with him...and now, just a few hours later, Kuryakin had been spirited away from his hotel room.

Kuchenko ran his fingers through the tufts of what remained of his hair. Damn THRUSH. Damn them! They had followed him to the game, saw his accidental meeting with the man, and decided to take steps. He had sealed Kuryakin's doom.

But how could he know? He had needed help, he had tried to make it seem accidental...

Kuchenko punched a fist into his other hand. The question was..had they kidnapped Kuryakin because it had seemed that he, Kuchenko, had known him, or had be been kidnapped because someone else also recognized him as Kuryakin?

Either way, what did this mean for him?

**2. SOLO**

Even though the glass panes dividing the racquetball court from the hallway were extremely thick, the sound of the little rubber ball hitting the four walls managed to penetrate.

Within one of the rooms, a man and two women were playing racquetball. The man, although he was seventy-five, looked like he was sixty or even younger. He still had a full head of hair, although most of it was steel grey their were thick strands of black still remaining. His face, deeply tanned, was also deeply lined with age, but the skin under the chin was firm and he retained his classic good looks.

Even the most dedicated athlete will see weight shift into his midsection as he ages, but Napoleon Solo had maintained his strength and fitness since the day he retired from UNCLE, and was within a few pounds of his fighting weight.

Not that he fought anyone these days... except his daughter and grand-daughter who had no pity on an old man and ran him all over the court. (Solo had taught his children well - his daughter, in her late 30s (for he had married late and had been careful to not sire a child while still an agent of UNCLE) and her grand-daughter, in her early teens) and they were in great shape themselves.)

After their hour was up, Solo went into the locker room to shower and change. Their was a TV in each of the four corners of the room, each one tuned to a different sport channel.

Crisply dressed in black slacks and shirt, Solo carried his gym bag out into the lobby, and settled down to wait for his womenfolk. Although neither one obsessed about her appearance, they typically took an extra ten minutes in the locker room after one of their games. He didn't mind it... he'd people watch if any people walked by..

It was late at night...later than they normally played...and they were due to meet his wife at a restaurant in 45 minutes...

No one walked by. With a sigh, Napoleon glanced at the TV set that was constantly on. And froze, as he saw a photo of Ilya Kuryakin on the screen.

The TV set was normally muted. Napoleon lunged for remote control, just in time to hear the words, "Dr. Mallard has decided to fly south for the winter."

Mallard? Mallard? What the hell were they talking about?

It had been many years since Napoleon had seen Ilya - they had gone their separate ways after the dissolution of UNCLE. They'd gotten together once, about 15 years after the fact...and Ilya had established a career as a fashion designer and gone by the name of Vanya. But after that one affair, they'd gone their separate ways again. Oh, they'd exchanged Christmas cards, the occasional postcard, but that was it. They'd each created new lives for themselves and the old lives just didn't fit any more.

"Ready, dad?"

Napoleon looked up into the face of his daughter - beautiful, strong, confident...knowing him as a computer guru. And his grand-daughter. Equally strong, equally beautiful...with a sadness in her eyes that she always attempted to hide. She was married to a Army man, a Ranger, who was currently serving an extended tour in Iraq..after a honeymoon and three months of marriage.

Despite himself, Napoleon couldn't help but harbor a bit of resentment toward the man. He himself had put his life on the line every day, back when he'd been an UNCLE agent, and knowing that, he'd never made a commitment to a woman. He hadn't deprived himself, to be sure, but he'd never come even close to falling in love...or worse, having a woman fall in love with him...

But Michael Phillips, his grand-daughter's husband, had had no such qualms...

Well...that was enough of that kind of thinking...Phillips was a good man and would be a great son-in-law...

"Sure, let's go," Napoleon said.

They didn't know him as Napoleon Solo, of course, but rather as Nicholas Selby...just as Ilya Kuryakin had changed his name to Ilya Vanya...rather a quaint conceit, Napoleon had thought when he'd first heard about it... but it was a helluva lot better than _Mallard_.

After the family dinner was completed, Napoleon dropped daughter and grand-daughter off at their home (grand-daughter had moved in with her mother when her husband shipped out), then drove with his wife back to their own luxurious-but-tasteful house on the outskirts of Silicon Valley.

"I saw something on the news I want to check, darling, so I'm going to spend some time in my office," Napoleon told his wife, giving her a kiss on the cheek. She smiled at him and headed to the living room to settle down with a book.

Napoleon pulled up the website for the News of the Weird, and replayed that night's installment.

Dr. Donald Mallard, he mused. What in the world would Ilya be doing posing as a doctor in the Navy, he wondered. Or worse...a medical examiner. Someone who cut up dead bodies. That certainly didn't sound like Ilya's cup of tea. Yet that was him, in that photo....

And something was going on....

Napoleon did some web research on Dr. Donald Mallard...and discovered that as usual the News of the Weird wouldn't know a fact if it came up and bit them. Mallard wasn't a Navy man...he was attached to NCIS - the Naval Criminal Investigation Service. That sounded more reasonable.

Napoleon pulled out his cellphone and dialed the number of the airport where he kept his private jet. (As the president and CEO of a major software company, Napoleon believed in traveling in style). He filed a flight plan for the next morning - destination - Norfolk, Virginia.

**3. MARCOVITCH**

Juliana Marcovitch brushed her long, red hair. Marcovitch gave her hair 100 strokes a side, each night.

As she brushed, her emerald green eyes focused on the TV set, reflected in the mirror in front of her.

Marcovitch was the Eastern Seaboard contact for the resurgent THRUSH organization. As such, whenever they had teams out in the field, part of her duties was to scan the various media for any news of interest to the various satraps around the world.

There was too much media for one person, however, and to this end, she employed people who did nothing but watch television news all day and quantify all the data on a given day, and other people who did similar work with newspapers - both print and online.

But as any THRUSH agent, low-level or otherwise, knows, failure is not tolerated. So in addition to compiling her employees's work, she also TIVOd the news on a variety of stations and "spot-checked" some of the media herself

Thus it was that her bathroom television was set to the local news channel, and she too saw the report on the disappearance of Dr. Donald Mallard.

Marcovitch duped the segment from the TIVO onto her computer, converted it into a digital file, and sent it via email to Sapphire. She had already, previously, informed Sapphire that her orders regarding the acquisition of Dr. Mallard had been carried out.

**4. SAPPHIRE**

When Sapphire received the video from Marcovitch, she watched it with creased forehead and pursed lips.

Obviously, Carlton Forbes was a man with a literal mind. Or...perhaps it was Marcovitch who had the literal mind. She hadn't actually meant for Kuryakin to appear to have "disappeared" from his hotel room - with no trace of him remaining. She'd just meant he was to be picked up with no muss or fuss.

Because of the method of his removal, more questions were no doubt being raised than was necessary. There should have been signs of a struggle in the room, perhaps a pool of blood, maybe even a body to suggest that Kuryakin had killed someone and was now on the run...

Well...there was a certain elegance about Forbes' method, to be sure.

Sapphire ran the video clip again.

That face..that was definitely Ilya Kuryakin's face. Still...

She texted a messaged to Marcovitch. "Send me the prisoner's fingerprints."

Hitting send, she snapped off her cellphone, then turned her mind to the more important matters of the final preparations for Project Polaris.

Revenge was a dish best served cold, and she had plenty of time to deal with Ilya Kuryakin.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 6.**

Dr. Donald Mallard opened his eyes and blinked up at the ceiling.

It was a strange ceiling - not the ceiling of the bedroom in his home, nor the ceiling of the hotel room he'd been in for the last two days.

He sat up, and then lay back again, as his head began to swim.... had he had a stroke or something...was he in hospital?

He raised his hand, and saw his shirt-cuff. No hospital then.

He rolled over onto one elbow, and got a good look around before his head started to swim again and he was forced to flop back.

He was hallucinating.

In the far corner of the room was a television - a television with rabbit ears, the kind that hadn't been seen since the 1960s. Beside the bed was a night stand, with a couple of paperback books on it and a phone that hadn't been seen since the 60s, either! A big, black phone with a rotary dial and a large receiver.

A phone.

Ducky rolled over again, grabbed up the clunky receiver and brought it to his ear. There was no dial tone...he let the receiver drop and closed his eyes.

He felt for his chest pocket...nothing there.

He put his hands in his front pockets...nothing in either one. He felt his rear pockets. Again, nothing.

After a few seconds, Ducky raised his hand again. He was wearing a shirt and it went all the way down to his wrist, indeed, but it was not a shirt he owned...he propped himself up on his elbows. His slacks were different, too. And his shoes. What in the world?

Ducky put his hands on his belly... well..._that _was the same, anyway. He raised them to his head...felt around, but there were no lumps or bumps to indicate that he'd been knocked unconscious.

What was the last thing he remembered? He'd been in Norfolk, attending a conference. He had gone with Abby to see a basketball game. Quite a spirited game, and Abby had been so pleased when her team had won... and then...yes, a man had approached him, asked him for his business card...a Russian. Pretending to know him...

Had that been a set-up? It must have been.

The next day... the conference, as usual. Returned to the hotel. Agreed to meet Abby in the lobby for dinner in two hours, and had settled down in his room to relax, perhaps take a 30 minute nap...and after that...

After that...he couldn't remember.

Ducky forced himself to relax.

Obviously, he'd been kidnapped. Equally obviously, there was some kind of plan afoot for him. This 1960s decor...why...had he worked on some case in the 1960s and now some mentally disturbed individual wanted to make him relive that time? Much as in that case from a few years ago, when a young man had kidnapped women and kept them in a room decorated in the 1950s fashion, complete with a manual for The Proper Wife.

Well...if that was the case...they'd want him in this room for a good long time...and the longer he stayed here...the more chance there'd be for Gibbs and Gibbs team to find him.

Yes...he must keep calm, keep a mental balance. Gibbs would find him.

Feeling calmer, Ducky suddenly realized that he was feeling ravenous, and terribly thirsty. He must have been unconscious for much longer than 24 hours...possibly even 36.

Ducky rolled over again, then, very slowly sat up and put his feet over the edge of the bed. So far, so good.

There was a door opposite the bed. It would undoubtedly be locked, nevertheless he might as well try it. Carefully, Ducky walked across the room and tried the doorknob. Yes, locked. He placed his palm on the doorjamb and tugged at the doorknob violently, just to let out a wee bit of anger.

No good. As he removed his hand from the doorjamb, he noticed black smudges on it. He turned his hands over and looked at his fingers. There were black smudges there...he'd been fingerprinted!

What on earth?

Ducky returned to the phone, and picked up the wire that ran from it to the wall. It was plugged in. He lifted up the receiver. Still, no dial tone.

He turned on the television. To his surprise, there was a click and a buzz as electricity began to course through the machine, and then a program came on. He turned the channels...there were only three...no one had hooked up cable to this room, he saw. And the programs were familiar...all from t he late 1960s, if he was not very much mistaken. More of this "back in time" foolishness.

Well, they could toy with him all they liked, but if they didn't give him something to drink soon..

Wait... there was another door. He pulled that one open, and found himself in the bathroom. An inner bathroom - no window to the outside. But there was a toilet, and a tub, and a sink. He turned on the tap...and cool water came gushing forth. Ducky held both hands under the tap and drank until he was sated.

Well.

Well, well.

Feeling tired again, Ducky returned to the bed and lay on it. He took a look at the paperbacks.

A pristine copy of The Godfather, by Mario Puzo. Copyright 1969. A first edition. And Michael Moorcock's Behold the Man. Also a first edition, 1969.

"Charming," murmured Ducky. Neither book had then been or was now his cup of tea. And he could think of nothing that connected them to his past, no special reason why they should be in the room. Perhaps whoever had him prisoner just wanted to bore him to death.

_Stay calm_, he told himself, lying back on the bed and closing his eyes. Stay calm._ Keep your eyes and ears open for anything. Gibbs will come for you, but if you see a chance...take it..._ he slept.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Gibb Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 7.**

**1. Ziva and Tony**

Armed with the sketch that Abby had made, Tony and Ziva drove out to the campus of Old Dominion University.

"I've never cared much for basketball," Ziva commented as she drove.

Tony, who had been lost in thought...perhaps thinking of what might be happening to Ducky at that very moment, glanced over at her.

"You surprise me," he said. "Basketball is the ultimate team sport. Each member of the team has to click together...know what each other is thinking..."

Ziva waved a hand. "It may be good for instructing people in teamwork, but the object is still to just put a ball in a hoop." she shrugged. "It may be fun to play, I grant you. But to watch?"

"Oh, I used to like to watch it," Tony commented. "Back when the players wore short shorts, not all the baggy stuff they wear today..."

Ziva eyeballed him. "I'm talking _girls _basketball here, Ziva," Tony barked, although with less than his usual elan.

"That is why football is so much fun to watch," Ziva admitted. "The guys always wear those tight, nice-fitting uniforms..."

She turned into the parking lot of the Ted Constant Convocation Center (having followed directions given by her GPS system), past a large sign that announced that the ODU Lady Monarchs had another game that night against the Maryland Terrapins.

It was early in the morning, the day after Ducky's disappearance, and the parking lot of the Ted Constant Convocation Center held only a few cars. Ziva chose a space as close as possible to the front doors.

"Big building," she commented as they walked towards the doors.

"Yeah, fortunately we only have to concentrate on one section of it."

The anteroom was huge, with large doors leading into the building proper. In front of them were a bank of glassed-in teller-type windows where people picked up or purchased tickets for the various events held there. At this time, the windows appeared deserted.

Tony stepped up to the window. "Hellooo? Anybody there?"

A young black woman appeared from a far corner and hurried forward, smiling cheerfully. "Hi, can I help you?"

Tony showed her his credentials. "We're looking for a man...an old man... who was seated somewhere in Section 234 two days ago - during the game against the Lady Vols. We need to talk to him, urgently."

She glanced from him to Ziva and back. "Yes?"

"We're wondering if you could give us a list of the people who were seated in that section. You've got their names, right?"

"Well, yes. Season ticket holders. Other people who called up and reserved their seats. But just walk-ups, we wouldn't have that information."

"Well, just a list of the names of the people you have," said Tony with his charming smile.

"Well, I don't know. I think that's the type of information you need a warrant for, isn't it? I mean, that's a lot of addresses to be giving out, I don't..."

"We don't have time for a warrant..." started Tony, but Ziva chimed in.

"Let's try this first of all. Would you mind just checking your list of people to see if any of them have Russian-sounding names?" (For Abby had told them the man who'd greeted Ducky had sounded Russian.)

The clerk checked through her computer. "We've got a few Polish-sounding...oh...here's one. Kuchenko. He's had season tickets here for ten years. Three seats, very top row of Section 234. Actually, I know him now. Well, not really _know _him. I mean, I recognize him. Because although there are a lot better season tickets available - closer to the court, I mean, whenever he renews he insists on those same seats. See, I'm the one who calls up people and gets them to try to renew their tickets."

"Well, great. Then all we need is his address."

The clerk shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't feel comfortable with that. I really think you need to bring me a warrant before I can share that information."

Ziva and Tony exchanged frustrated glances.

Tony held up a finger and did his best Jim Carrey impersonation. "We'll be.... right back."

He and Ziva stepped a little bit away.

"So we wait a few hours for a warrant." said Tony. "Gibbs will push it through like _that_."

"I know he will, but each second that we have to wait is one more second that Ducky's in danger."

"Then the quicker we call Gibbs and have him...." He stopped, as Ziva had closed her eyes.

"What?" said Tony.

Ziva opened her eyes and slapped her own head. "Tony, she told us his name! _Kuchenko_. How many Kuchenkos can there be in Norfolk? We can find his address ourselves!"

Without further preamble Ziva headed for the door. After a stunned second, Tony sketched a wave at the clerk and followed her.

**2. Napoleon Solo**

When Napoleon got into his rental car at Norfolk's Executive Airport, no one he knew would have recognized him.

His reasoning was simply. He was an old man, now, and even though he kept in shape, he had no idea how many of his nine lives - that it seemed that he and Ilya had while they were agents for UNCLE - were still remaining. He could no longer rush in and trust to his physical abilities to save the day. He had to use stealth...a little guile.

This whole thing with Ilya disappearing might be an Ignus Fatuus - some ridiculous misunderstanding. He hoped so...and that he'd be able to laugh at the tremendous amount of preparation he'd just subjected himself to.

But if something bad was going on...if old enemies were out looking for revenge...he wanted to be able to recognize them and he did not want them to be able to return the favor.

So he had used the executive washroom in the Executive Airport to good effect. He'd shaved off much of his full head of hair, leaving behind only the white tufts on the sides. That added a good ten years to his age right there (not to mention making him feel funny as cool air wafted over his now bald pate...) . He wore a fat suit (used in some long-forgotten affair, but that he'd fortunately had packed up in his attic for the last 40 years) that not only added a good hundred pounds to his weight but also had other features that he hoped would not be needed... and he leaned heavily on a cane, as an old man who weighed as much as he did would obviously need.

Moreover, he had an eyeglass strap for his reading glasses. Usually he kept the eyelets as close to the ear pieces as possible, so that the strap pretty much disappeared into his hairline and was not noticed. Now, he'd moved the straps halfway down each sidepiece, so that they dangled beside his head and made him look extremely geeky.

In his new form, he found that the car check out clerk, an attractive, young female, spared him not the slightest second glance, simply handed over the keys and bade him have a good time.

Like anyone with a computer these days, he'd found the driving directions to the Oceana Hotel from Yahoo Driving Directions, and drove there quickly and expertly. As he entered into the parking lot, he noticed a large white van, with the logo of a local news channel upon it. But no cameras in view.

A five-star hotel, the Oceana. The lobby was luxuriously appointed, Napoleon noted, as he limped inside. A young lady was behind the check-in counter, dabbling with a computer screen. She looked up as he approached.

"I'd like a room, please. Single."

"Certainly."

She tapped the keyboard.

Napoleon leaned forward confidentially. "I saw that bit of news last night. About that man disappearing?"

She looked up and gave him a strained smile. "Yes, sir. Seems like everybody's seen it."

"I don't suppose I could have that room?"

"I'm sorry..."

"I'm a psychic, you see," Napoleon said persuasively. "If I can be in that room, I might be able to find out what happened to him."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, firmly. "It's unavailable. _Officially _unavailable."

"Ah," said Napoloeon. "The police have it sealed off, eh?"

"Yes, sir. I...well, sir, I can get you the room right beside it, if you'd like."

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

As Napoleon limped towards his new room, he pursed his lips. How lucky that the adjacent room should be empty. He hadn't expected to be so fortunate.

**3. Gibbs**

Special agent Jethro Gibbs had just finished reading the riot act for the second time that morning. First, he had chewed out the reporter from the News of the Weird who had broken the story last night without even having any of the facts of the case, and then he had chewed out the producer who had ridden along in the TV station's film van, as they'd asked for permission to film the room and Gibbs had categorically denied it. He wanted no further publicity on the case.

This producer, sympathetic with the needs of officials to make their investigations, had agreed.

As Gibbs walked past the check-in counter on his way out the door – he wanted some coffee – the clerk called to him.

"Yes?" he said.

"Um, I suppose you get a lot of people bugging you at a time like this," she began. "People confessing to the crime, stuff like that."

"Yes. Don't tell me you want to confess." (He delivered that line Gibbs-like, coldly, not jokingly.)

"No...but...I just had a man check in. A Norman Sykes. (Napoleon had no problem making fake Ids.) He said he was a psychic. I think he's here to investigate the disappearance. I thought you might like to know."

Inwardly, Gibbs sighed. God save him from incompetents, publicity seekers, and the mentally disturbed. Any one of which term could be applied to any psychic you cared to name.

"He's in the room right next to 215," the clerk went on. "He tried to get the same room, but I told him that wasn't possible. He was happy with the room next door, though."

Gibbs nodded. "Thanks for letting me know."

Then he turned and headed out for his coffee.


	8. Chapter 8

1**The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 8.**

**1. Abby**

Abby drove back to NCIS headquarters alone. From Norfolk up to Richmond...not even stopping to take in her favorite spot in Richmond - the Edgar Allan Poe Museum - she continued on into Washington, DC, and to NCIS headquarters, a four hour drive all told.

She hadn't wanted to leave Norfolk, but she knew full well that the best way she could serve Ducky was to be in her lab, ready to process any evidence that the rest of the team should send her way.

**2. Solo**

Napoleon Solo sat in Abby's recently vacated hotel room, wondering if he hadn't outsmarted himself. He'd been so concerned about not being recognized that he'd also removed all or at least most of his ability to charm his way around the ladies... the old Napoleon Solo would have been let into the hotel room within minutes.... but he wasn't the old Napoleon Solo, he was just the _old _Napoleon Solo.

Charm was out, obviously, directness was in.

He had to talk to the people in charge of investigating Ilya's disappearance. The NCIS.

Now, if he were investigating this mystery through official channels, he'd have people on the spot...headquartered in the hotel.

And the clerk at the desk should be able to tell him where that was.

Napoleon gathered up his cane, limped to the door, and opened it with a jerk. (He didn't really expect to catch anyone _en flagrante delecto_, either with an ear pinned to his door or just rushing away down the hallway, nevertheless that's how he'd be opening doors from now on.)

And it seemed that it had paid benefits on this occasion.

Two men stared at him, one - who had had his hand raised to knock - in shock, the other, expressionlessly.

The older one...the one obviously in charge...was in his fifties, Napoleon judged, with silvered hair, a handsome face set in a grim expression, and a slender build. His companion, much younger, an inch or so taller, beefier, had a round face and a slightly anxious expression. That one lowered his hand and glanced at the older man.

"Mr. Sykes," said the older one. "They told me you were psychic."

**3. Ziva and Tony**

Tony had looked up Kuchenko in the online white pages on his laptop, and now Ziva was driving in the direction of the only Kuchenko listed in the Norfolk phone book.

"The drivers around here get worse every time we're here," Ziva commented as she blared her horn and swerved around a slowpoke.

"Uh huh," said Tony.

After a few more minutes, they arrived in a residential section, filled with houses that Tony estimated were in the upper-middle-class range if not better, and Ziva slowed down.

"Turn left here," Tony directed. "Then right onto Ventnor. We're looking for Number 45."

Ziva turned onto the street. Every house was separated from that street by a vast lawn, and sidewalks ran along each side of the road. Every house also had a wide driveway that would easily fit a fleet of cars. Most of them had a single car in t he driveway. It was mid-morning...the wives were home, Tony thought, the second cars, belonging to hubby, wouldn't be back until around six pm or so.

The houses were similar in other ways. Each one had a white post with a mailbox sitting on top of it, right beside the driveway. The only individuality, it seemed, was how this area was decorated...some people had flowers, others nothing but grass, some had flags draped below the box, honoring their favorite sports team.

A single late model sedan was parked on the street, about three houses down from their target. Ziva could see no one inside it, nevertheless the tips of her fingers started to tingle.

"Hey, there it is," Tony pointed out.

Ziva glanced at him, but kept on driving past number 45 - which had an ODU flag hanging by the mailbox, then turned off at the next cross street. After another block, she drew the car to the side of the road.

Tony turned to look at her. "Well?"

"I didn't like that car on the road. So much room in the driveways...why park on the road?"

Tony shrugged. "Maybe it's someone they don't know. Older folks might not feel comfortable parking in someone's driveway."

It was Ziva's turn to shrug. "In Mossad, we learn to be very vigilant about things like that. As Abby would say, my spidey sense is tingling."

"You got the plate number?" asked Tony.

"Of course."

"Well, we can get Abby to run it for us. See who it belongs to."

Ziva nodded.

"In the meantime..." said Tony.

"In the meantime...?" Ziva prompted.

"He's an ODU fan," Tony mused. "And there's another game tonight. What're the odds he'll be at that game as well?"

"They might be good."

Tony grinned. "We do the warrant thing. Find out who the people are who sit on either side of this guy, and we take their places. Then we can talk to him in anonymity."

Ziva smiled. "I like the way you think, Tony."

**4. Mallard**

Ducky lay on the bed, propped up with two pillows, watching _Laugh-In_, and munching on a bread and butter sandwich. On the nightstand was the glass out of the bathroom, filled with water.

All of the shows he was watching, complete with commercials, seemed to be from 1969. The late 1960s, anyway. He did not bother to inspect the television set to see how it was being done. He was not a fool - there was some trickery involved, he didn't have to look for it.

Of more concern was the matter of his diet. When he'd wakened an hour ago, there had been a white bag just beside the door. Inside it had been a note: "You will receive your allotment of food each morning."

That was all the note said.

And his allotment of food? Bread and butter sandwiches. Peanut butter sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Boloney sandwiches. And that was _it_. He'd obviously been kidnapped by men or teenagers.

Knowing how important it was that he keep his strength up, Ducky had gritted his teeth and chosen the bread-and-butter sandwiches. At least they were edible, and breakfast _was _the most important meal of the day.

Well...he'd always been meaning to lose weight...

**5. Sapphire**

Sapphire entered her home. She had spent an hour outside, wrapped in velvety blackness, looking up at the stars that shone so brightly here, far away from the light pollution of the major cities. Although there were several large telescopes at Polaris headquarters, she preferred looking through her own Astroscan.

The time zones were such that as Tony and Ziva settled down to watch the car watching Kuchenko's house (doing so by being parked five blocks away and using powerful field glasses) – Sapphire was enjoying the night stars, and now opened her computer and downloaded the file that contained the fingerprints of the man whom she thought was Ilya Kuryakin.

She did not have the sophisticated fingerprint-checking technology that NCIS or any law-enforcement agency had, nor did she feel she needed it.

When first being reminded of the existence of Kuryakin, she had drawn out of storage a box that had been _in _storage for many decades.

On top of the box now were two broken statuettes. Fingerprint powder still remained on the base of each one. One had been wielded, many years ago, by Ilya Kuryakin, the other by his dark-haired companion, Napoleon Solo. They had been broken over the heads of two of her parent's minions, as the UNCLE agents had made their escape which had developed into a rout of her parent's THRUSH cell.

Beside each statuette was a piece of black fingerprint tape, with which she had lifted those decade old fingerprints. Sapphire took up the tape that had belonged to Ilya Kuryakin, brought it to the computer, and compared it to the prints that she'd been sent.

Not a match.

Frowning, Sapphire brought over Solo's fingerprints.

Not a match.

Sapphire tapped a long red fingernail on her white teeth.

When agents changed their identity or impersonated someone else, it was easy to substitute the proper fingerprints in the various databases, so that anyone checking would find what they thought were the correct fingerprints...but that did not fit this case. She _knew _the fingerprints on that statuette were Kuryakin's...there was no way that broken statuette could have been switched with another at any time during the last several decades...

The man she'd had kidnapped was not Ilya Kuryakin.

Well...crap.

Well...the man was now useless. Better get rid of him.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 9.**

**1.** **Solo, Gibbs and McGee**

"I _am _psychic at times," Napoleon said. "But I don't know who you are."

The elder one produced his ID. "I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. This is Agent McGee."

Napoleon stood his ground. "I'd like to see your ID too, young man."

"Oh, yes, of course." McGee dug into his back pocket, pulled it out.

Napoleon squinted at it, then nodded. "Please come in, gentlemen,"he said, stepping backward, and gesturing into the room with his cane.

NCIS personnel attending conferences did not rate suites, but the rooms that Abby and Ducky had had were large and spacious, with a table at which one could work in one corner, beside the television.

Napoleon gestured at it, and Gibbs, after glancing at McGee, took a seat. McGee, who had made a movement toward the table, remained standing.

Napoleon seated himself opposite the other man, being careful to stretch out his "gimpy" leg with care. He lifted up his glasses, where they had dangled on his chest, and adjusted them on his nose fussily.

"Well, Special Agent Gibbs, you need a psychic?"

"I'm told you wanted to check in to the room next door. I want to know why."

Napoleon was a quick judge of people, and saw that this man Gibbs would not suffer fools gladly, and did not beat about the bush. Well, he would be just as forthright...well, just as forthright as possible. (If Ilya were in deep cover with the NCIS, it would not do for him to blow that cover.)

"The man who disappeared is a friend of mine," Napoleon said. "I intend to find out what happened to him."

"And how do you know he disappeared?"

"I saw the News of the Weird segment last night."

Gibbs' lips quirked. The thought of a news agency broadcasting something like that without even doing any research about it still irked him no end.

"So, Agent Gibbs, what progress have you made?" Napoleon asked.

"Damn all." grunted Gibbs.

"No suspects? No ransom note?"

"Not yet."

Napoleon nodded. "I see."

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

"How long have you known Dr. Mallard?" asked Gibbs finally.

"Oh," Napoleon gestured. "A few years."

"I ask, because I've known him for a long time, and he's never mentioned you."

"Oh? How long a time?"

"Twenty years." Gibbs gritted.

Napoleon nodded. "That is a long time. Well, I knew him before then. We worked together for a time. Then, we went our separate ways, and lost touch. But that doesn't mean he isn't still a friend of mine."

"I see," said Gibbs. "You'll want to see his mother, then."

Napoleon's eyes circled. "His... his mother?"

"Yes," Gibbs said, starting at Napoleon intently. "The woman he's been living with for the last twenty years."

"Ah," said Napoleon. "That would explain it. As I said, I haven't seen him for twenty years."_ Ilya's mother had died when he was a child._

"Um, Agent Gibbs." Napoleon rubbed his lip. "1983...Did you know Dr. Mallard in 1983?" That was the last time he'd seen Ilya. They'd been re-united for a few months, tracking down an escaped terrorist.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed. "Not to speak to. He was just an assistant Medical Examiner at NCIS at that time. I didn't meet him formally until 1988. Why do you ask?"

"Well, well..." murmured Napoleon. Things weren't adding up. Ilya had been a very intelligent man, practically in the genius class, but in 1983 he'd been a fashion designer, founder of the House of Vanya, and there was no way on God's green earth that he could have been moonlighting as a _medical examiner_. Someone who autopsied bodies and explained how he died. This Doctor Mallard...it must be just a coincidence that he looked so much like Ilya.

Such things were known to happen...Everyone had a double, as someone once said. And many an entertainer in Las Vegas made their livelihood because they looked like some movie star...why couldn't normal people have doubles as well?

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Sykes." said Gibbs.

Napoleon caught up his tie and cleaned his eyeglasses fussily with the ends of it. "I'm sorry. It's just...the thought of Dr. Mallard's mother. I would've thought he'd been married by now. Had a few kids."

"Dr. Mallard's mother has had health problems for many years," said Gibbs, "and he is very fond of her."

"Oh, of course. Of course."

Napoleon took a deep breath. "Well, gentlemen. Thank you for being so frank with me. I'll be here for a couple of days. I hope you'll keep me up to speed on if a ransom note arrives, or anything like that."

"You can count on it," said Gibbs, rising.

Napoleon got to his feet also, again careful to make use of his cane, and escorted the two men to the door.

After they'd gone, he turned and threw the cane onto the bed in disgust. Wasted trip...he should have done more research last night...confirmed _then _whether or not this Dr Mallard was Ilya...foolish of him not to have verified it before making this entire trip, _plus _shaving off his hair.

"I am getting old," he said out loud.

He ran a hand ruefully over his bald pate. He'd better pick up a rug today...impossible to explain _that _to his wife. Please god his original hair would grow back in a month or two!

Napoleon retrieved his cane and limped out of his hotel room, intent on visiting the best wig shop in the city of Norfolk.

He'd check out tomorrow morning, Napoleon decided, and return home. As for the unfortunate Dr. Mallard, Special Agents Gibbs had struck him as a very competent man, more than capable of solving that little mystery on his own.

**2. Marcovitch**

"Have Forbes kill our recent visitor, and dump hid body where it will not be found."

Marcovitch read the email, and felt a _frisson _of irritation. Not that she had any qualms about ordering the death of an innocent man, of course, but merely because she hated waste. Also, she was an efficient woman, and didn't like it when things didn't make sense, and killing this man didn't make sense. Finally, she had her sights set on being a satrap one day – THRUSH was a growing concern and always looking to promote from within – and Sapphire was her mentor.

Therefore, she called up the woman using Skype, so they could see each other while they talked.

"Madame Sapphire," she said, when the satrap had answered. "I'm in receipt of your orders regarding our recent visitor."

"Yes?" said Sapphire, raising one perfect eyebrow.

"I'd like clarification, please. Obviously, you had something in mind with our visitor, and after you received his fingerprints, you changed your mind..."

Sapphire smiled at her protege.

"It's a lesson well learnt, Marcovitch," she admitted ruefully. "I let a desire for revenge get the best of me, when I should have been concentrating on Project Polaris. That man resembled an old adversary of my parents. Turns out, that's all it was, a resemblance. So we may as well get rid of him."

"But if I may, Sapphire... this man _is _rather high up in NCIS - that's the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Those people...have power. Why not...demand a trade?"

Sapphire stared at her protege, tapping one finger against her teeth.

"Marcovitch, you're a genius. Make NCIS use its investigative skills to find Ilya Kuryakin. Demand that Kuryakin be given to me in exchange for their own man. What a good plan."

Marcovitch bent her head."Thank you, Sapphire."

"Very well, Marcovitch. I have to concentrate on Polaris for the next several days. We're at a critical stage. So, _you _are in charge of Operation Doppelganger. Have Kuryakin sent to me here, the _real _Kuryakin, in chains, and I will ensure that when the next position of satrap opens up, you'll get it."

Marcovitch smiled. "Thank you, Sapphire. I won't let you down. Marcovitch...out."


	10. Chapter 10

**If you like, please review. Don't mean to sound like a whiner, but it's kind of disheartening to not get any reviews or constructive criticism...**

**The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 10.**

**1. Ducky**

Carlton Forbes closed his cellphone with a snap and shook his head.

Kid gloves...kid gloves...always with the kid gloves. His bosses were making him treat these old men as if they were a combination of Bruce Lee, James Bond and Superman. First Kuchenko and now this Mallard fellow. When it was clear to him, _and _his team, that they could snap their necks with ease.

It was Marcovitch who had instructed him to put their visitor into a safe room encapsulating life as it was in 1969. Apparently Marcovitch had a thing for that era...weird, as that delightful bird could not have been born until the late 1970s, if he was any judge. And he was.

And now she was telling him to slip the old guy an old-fashioned tape recorder, to have him record a message on _that_, instead of on a digital recorder that made everything so easy.

He hated it when people played private games in the midst of an important job...and clearly that's what Marcovitch was doing here.

And he still wasn't to get anywhere near the man. Mustn't give the 75-year old duffer a chance to drop-kick him into next week, apparently.

Forbes sighed. Then he shrugged. Marcovitch was paying him. Marcovitch was the boss. He had his instructions and he would follow them to the letter.

Thus it was that Ducky, in the midst of watching _The Ghost and Mrs. Muir_ with Edward Mulhare and Hope Lange, saw the screen go dark, and then be replaced by a test pattern - something he hadn't seen for donkey's years. A British voice emanate from the screen

"We interrupt your program for this emergency message. The door is about to open. Stay on the bed. If you set one foot on the floor, you will be shot."

Ducky, stretched out on the bed as he was, drew his knees up to his chest.

"I'm not going anywhere," he called out.

He watched as the door did indeed open, and a large, old-fashioned tape recorder was pushed into the room. He saw no hand, no face...just the tape recorder.

"Sellotaped to that recorder is a piece of paper with a message printed on it," the television told him. "Record that message onto the machine, then go back and sit on the bed."

Ducky folded his arms over his chest.

"Is there a problem?" came the voice.

"Before I do something for you, I want you to do something for me."

"Yes?"

"It's about the menu."

**Part 2. Kuchenko**

At precisely six pm, Gregori Kuchenko and his two grand-daughters got into his SUV. As was his custom on "basketball night", he took them out to dinner at a local Chilis, and then they drove onto the campus of Old Dominion University to attend the game.

Never before had Kuchenko had to act as unconcerned as he hoped he was acting now. He _had _to take his grand-daughters to the game, it was the routine and They'd be expecting it. But his vulnerability was increased here...if They were angry about what had happened the afternoon before...if They'd broken Ilya and he'd told them who he was...even if They'd just decided They couldn't trust him on his own anymore....

It would not be _he _that would suffer for Their mistrust, he knew, but his grand-daughters. If They snatched one or both, in order to have yet more leverage against him than just _threatening _that that's what They'd do...

Kuckenko's mind went round and round, like a hamster on a wheel in a cage...he didn't know what to do...he knew what _he'd _have done back in the old days, if he'd been in charge of an operation..._he _would have snatched a man's grand-daughters without hesitation..wouldn't have even left it this long!.

He felt a tug on his hand. "Grandpa...we can't go in yet. I've got to get my program," said Mia.

"And I want a bucket of ice-cream," said Sandra, digging into her purse. "I'll get one for each of us."

"We'll meet you at the seats," Mia told him.

"No, my dears," said Kuchenko. "It has been many weeks since I've seen what they offer for sale here...I wish to take a look. Let us look together, eh?"

As a result, the girls climbed to their seats bearing more goodies than they'd ever yet managed to score at such a game, and were chattering away happily.

Kuchenko noted that the people who normally sat on either side of them were not there. Instead, there was a beautiful dark-haired woman seated on the left...wearing an ODU shirt, and on the right, an older man...perhaps mid-thirties, also wearing an ODU sweatshirt and bearing a foam finger.

As was their custom, Mia sat on his left, Sandra on his right, and grandpa got to sit in the middle.

Also as was their custom, as soon as half-time rolled around Mia and Sandra would head downstairs and do...whatever it was they did at these times...all Kuchenko knew was that they usually returned with more ice cream.

Things had to remain as normal...he watched them head down the stairs...

"Cute kids," said the woman, with an accent he couldn't recognize.

"Yes," he said. He was not in the mood to talk...he opened up the program and stared at the text within.

"Were they with you yesterday, during the Lady Vols game?"

Kuchenko's heart went ice cold, and plummeted into h is stomach, where it remained. They had come for him...

He stalled.

"What do you mean?"

"You met a man at the end of that game. I'm sure you recall. And not 24 hours later he disappeared. Kind of strange, don't you think?"

Kuchenko listened in horror...horror which he carefully kept from his face. She was not THRUSH...they would not have approached him in such a manner... who the hell was she? Police? UNCLE? But UNCLE was dead. Nevertheless, he could not be seen to be talking to her!

She had reached into her purse...took out a photo...was handing it to him.

"Don't give it to me," he hissed through smiling lips, putting urgency into his tone. "They're watching for any contact!"

The woman's eyes flickered, then she continued extending the photo, first toward his chest and then back outward and upward, toward the man on the other side. "Give it to him," she said quietly.

The other man extended his hand, took the photo, murmuring apologies for reaching.

Kuchenko seized his opportunity. Speaking slightly louder than normal...but not so loud as to seem unnatural, he said, "Please, if you know each other you must sit together. I can move down one. Please."

And the man, smiling his thanks, switched seats with him, then leaned over and gave the other woman a kiss on the cheek.

"Discuss the photo," Kuchenko hissed. "So that it seems natural that you gave it to him."

Even as the two of them smiled and laughed and made great play of the photo, the man said out of the corner of his mouth, "We were going to do that."

Kuchenko turned to them, smiling as if amused at the sight of two young lovers. "They are watching all the time," he said very quietly. "And you know what they do to people if they do not like what they see."

"Why didn't they like it yesterday?" the man said, his face turned toward the woman's.

Kuchenko sat with his chin in one palm, so that his fingers masked his mouth, while he paged through the program. Please god the watchers would be on _that _side of the arena, so that they would not see his mouth moving.

"They must have recognized him, as I did, and not believe it was a coincidence," Kuchenko said. "But it _was_. Who'd have thought...after thirty years.... I barely recognized him myself. I..."

And at that very second, Mia and Sandra returned. "Grandpa," said Mia..."aren't you in the wrong seat?"

Mia sat next to him, between him and the man, while Sandra went to the other side.

"They are friends who wanted to sit together, Mia," said Kuchenko lightly. "What did you bring me? Chocolate ice cream, I hope?"

The two agents...for whatever agency.... did not speak to him again after that, and when the game ended they lost no time rising to their feet, inching past knees, and leaving the area. As the man scooched by, he whispered, "We'll be in touch."

And then they were gone.


	11. Chapter 11

**If you like, please review. Don't mean to sound like a whiner, but it's kind of disheartening to not get any reviews or constructive criticism...**

**The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair**

**by Gale Force**

**Part 11.**

**1. Gibbs**

While Tony and Ziva were at the ODU game, Gibbs and McGee were in the Situation Room that they had set up at the Oceana Hotel.

They were watching the tapes from the surveillance cameras that had covered the hotel - the parking lot, the lobby, the elevators, the stairs, and the corridor that led to the rooms of Ducky and Abby.

They'd started with the cameras that covered the corridor. McGee fast-forwarded to three o'clock, the time when Abby said they'd got back to the hotel. They watched as Abby and Ducky entered the corridor, saw them pause and speak to each other for a few seconds while they stood outside Ducky's room, then Ducky went into his room and Abby entered hers.

Then, the tape whirred on for three more hours...nothing. The occasional individual entering the hallway, walking down to their room. Couples, single men, single women. Gibbs leaned forward as a man dressed in white coveralls -- Norton's TV Service emblazoned on the back – stopped at Ducky's door, but he consulted something in his hand and then moved on two more doors down, before stopping, inserting card key into lock, and entering a room.

And that was it. At six o'clock Abby came out of her room and knocked on Ducky's door...and Ducky never answered.

"So he wasn't taken out through the hallway," Gibbs mused.

"What other way out is there?" wondered McGee. "They're on the third floor."

"The only other way out is through the window," Gibbs snapped. "Someone could have either climbed up, or rappelled down, to his room, knocked him out, then lowered him to the street."

"Wouldn't that have been kind of conspicuous?"

"It's December, McGee. Gets dark at five o'clock these days, doesn't it? And their rooms faced the rear of the hotel. The parking lot."

"That's right, boss. But...we covered the balcony. The sliding door was locked, there were no prints on the railing."

"Ducky's an Englishman...they like fresh air," said Gibbs. "So, Ducky has the sliding door open. Someone rappels down, gets into the room, knocks him out, drags him out to the balcony. Closes the door behind him, it locks. Then, continues on to the ground. Did you check the ground beneath Ducky's room?"

"No, boss."

"Then let's check it now."

They headed out into the lobby, where the clerk on duty said, "Special Agent Gibbs."

"Yes?"

"I was just about to call you. You have a package." The clerk indicated the man standing on the opposite side of the counter, clad in the red and white of Quik Delivery Service man.

That worthy held out a clipboard. "If you'll just sign on line number 17, sir."

Gibbs grabbed the clipboard, scrawled his signature, and then was handed a small package, VHS-tape sized. The label on it said only "NCIS officer in charge, Oceana Hotel."

Gibbs reached out and grabbed the arm of the delivery man.

"Who gave this to you?"

The delivery man gaped at him. "My dispatcher. Just an hour ago. We do same day service."

"What's your name?"

"Me? Mason."

"Well, Mason. I'd appreciate it if you'd hold on just a second. I want to go back with you and have a chat with your dispatcher."

Mason looked from Gibbs to McGee, then shrugged. "I guess."

Gingerly, Gibbs shook the box. Something in it rattled. Gibbs gritted his teeth. He should have Abby or someone x-ray the box before he opened it, but he didn't have time. "Stay here, McGee, with Mason. I'll be back in five minutes."

Gibbs strode out of the hotel, and into the far corner of the parking lot. There, he pulled on a pair of evidence gloves, and then popped the tab on the box - there was no tape sealing it - and opened the box. No explosion. Instead, there was a cassette tape inside, and a folded over sheet of paper.

Gibbs opened up the paper. There were five typewritten sentences:

We have your man. We will trade him for Ilya Kuryakin.

You have 72 hours to locate him, starting from 0600 tomorrow.

Failure means your man's death.

Any more publicity means your man's death.

You will be contacted.

"Who the hell is Ilya Kuryakin?" Gibbs murmured.

"Do we have a tape recorder, McGee?" he demanded as he came back into the lobby.

"Um...just in the car, boss."

"Okay. Mason, I want you to drive back to your office. We will be right behind you. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Once the two cars were in motion, Gibbs put the cassette in the tape deck, and pressed play.

Immediately, they heard Ducky's voice.

"All right. Okay. Let me see here..." (The sound of the rustle of paper.)

I'm sorry...I can't read this. This handwriting is atrocious."

"Just read it," came a different voice.

"All right. Let me see.... no...I'm sorry, this handwriting is worse than mine. Good god, how do you expect me to decipher this?"

"Say you are being treated well."

"Oh. All right. Well, yes. Jethro, I am being treated well. Except for the fact that I'm being fed peanut butter sandwiches and my only entertainment is watching _old _television shows..."

"We agreed about the sandwiches." came the other vioce.

"That's right. Strike that comment, Jethro. The food is supposed to get better. I..."

"That's enough. Turn it off now."

And there was a loud click as Ducky turned off the tape recorder.

"Good old Ducky," McGee grinned. "He was playing that guy..."

Gibbs glanced at him coldly. "You think so?"

"Well...yeah, Boss. I mean, we found out at least that his kidnapper is English. He sounded English, didn't he, Boss?"

Gibbs nodded. "Yes, he sounded _English_. But c'mon, McGee. Ducky was doing his best to go off-script, but we're dealing with professionals here. If they thought anything that happened on that tape could identify them, they wouldn't have sent it."

"Well, they don't know our skills, Boss."

"That's true, McGee."

The Quik Delivery Service man drew up in front of his office, and got out of the car. Gibbs parked beside him, and he and McGee followed him into the building.

Gibbs showed his ID to the man behind the counter. He then showed the man the box - but didn't allow him to touch it.

"I want to know who brought in this box."

The clerk looked at it.

"Um...it was a guy. White guy. Sounded English, you know? Wearing a baseball cap. Had a moustache and beard. Handed it to me, said it needed to be delivered within the hour. We charge extra for that, he said no problem."

"How did he pay?"

"Cash. Hundred dollar bills."

"I want them. We'll give you a receipt."

"Uh...okay."

"Was he wearing gloves when he came in?"

"Uh, yeah. And kept them on when he pulled out the money and counted it over to me. It was in a money clip in his front pocket, not a wallet."

"What did the clip look like?"

"Oh, I dunno. I didn't really get a good look at it. It was gold, that's all I can say."

"Do you have a surveillance camera in here?"

"Sure do."

"I want that tape as well. Now, didn't he have to fill out a form?"

"No, sir. We're all on computers, now. He just told me the address, and I typed it into the screen."

"What about his address? He had to give that to you, didn't he?"

"Uh, yeah." The counter rep reached under the counter, and brought up a sheet of paper - the computer printed record of that transaction.

"There ya go. Address and phone number."

After everything had been packed up and stored in Gibbs' car, Gibbs drove back to the hotel in silence.

"All right, McGee," Gibbs said as they drove. "You're going to drop me off, and then drive all this material back up to Abby. I want her to get to work on everything first thing tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Boss."

"And tell her to keep it under her hat. This team alone is looking for Ducky."

"But...we've only got 72 hours, Boss! We need the FBI, the CIA..."

"We don't know who this Kuryakin is, McGee. If he's a person of interest to the FBI or CIA, they might not feel like helping us. We don't have time to waste persuading them to not get in our way."

"Yes, Boss."

You've got a digital recorder in your gear?"

"Yes."

"Okay - record Ducky's tape for me, first. I want to be able to play that for Tony and Ziva."

After McGee had left with his cargo, Gibbs settled down in his hotel room in front of his laptop. He knew enough about computers to use Google search. Perhaps this Kuryakin fellow was as simple as a defecting Russian politician...

By the time Tony and Ziva returned, at about 10:30, he had had no luck.

"Boss," said Tony, waving his foam finger, "we've got news."

"About time, DiNozzo," Gibbs snapped. "We've got 72 hours to find Ducky, so the news you've got better be good."

"Seventy-two hours?" said Ziva. "You've heard from the kidnappers?"

"Yes. I'll fill you in in a minute. Tell me what you've got, first."

Tony did so.

Gibbs wiped his face with his hand.

"Kuchenko is integral to our investigation," he said. "We're going to have to figure out a way to talk to him tomorrow."

"How, Boss?"

"Think about it, Tony, and tell me tomorrow."

"You've got it, Boss." said Tony.

"Now, I'll tell you what I've got."


	12. Chapter 12

**12. The Gale Force Says Uncle Affair**

**Part 1.**

Napoleon Solo took a final look around the hotel room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He knew he hadn't - he hadn't unpacked very much and he'd meticulously returned everything to his suitcase. Nevertheless... better safe than sorry.

He had not put on his "rug" yet, and wore the fat suit and carried the cane, as he still had to get out of the hotel and the personnel might have seen him in that incarnation, and he did not want to draw any more attention to himself.

Satisfied that he was leaving nothing behind, Solo picked up his suitcase and left the room He stopped in the lobby at the desk. Indeed, it was the same clerk who had checked him in the previous day.

"Hi, I'd like to check out please."

"You were scheduled for a week, sir," said the clerk, as she drew up his record in her computer. "I hope you weren't dissatisfied with our hotel."

"Not at all. My business just finished sooner than I expected, that's all."

She printed out his bill, and handed it to him. He took the appropriate amount out of his wallet and handed it over, thanked her, and turned to head toward the door.

"Can I help you with your bag?" said a voice.

He turned to see a young man standing right beside him, and next to him, Agent Gibbs, from the afternoon before.

"No thank you, young man," Napoleon told him. He transferred his gaze to Gibbs. "Agent Gibbs."

"Are you going somewhere?" that man said, in a slightly ironic tone of voice.

"I'm going home." He put a rueful smile on his face. "I must admit I feel rather foolish...coming here like this. I sat in my hotel room last night, trying to map out a plan of campaign, and I realized....I had no clue how to proceed. So, I'm going home, and I will let you professionals find Dr. Mallard."

"I'd like to have a little chat before you go. Please."

Napoleon put a look of slight concern on his face. He shrugged. "Young man, if you'll carry my suitcase."

Napoleon settled himself comfortably in a chair, stretching his "gimpy" leg out before him.

"You keep calling him, "Dr. Mallard." began Gibbs.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"What is your friend's name?" said Gibbs.

Exasperated face. "Dr. Donald Mallard."

"No nickname?"

Napoleon raised his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. "He may or may not have had a nickname. I don't care for nicknames...I always called him Donald."

"And now you're just going to abandon him?"

Napoleon frowned. "I'm sensing hostility from you, Agent Gibbs. Why? I would have thought you'd be happy to see amateurs getting out of you way. I'm leaving, I'm letting you get on with your job."

"And I appreciate that, Mr. Sykes."

Napoleon glanced from Gibbs to the un-introduced young man. "So...I'm free to go?"

At the other man's shrug, Napoleon got to his feet. The young man handed him his suitcase with a tilt of his head and a supercilious smile. Napoleon took it, had reached the door, put his suitcase down to open the door, when Gibbs said, "What if it were Ilya Kuryakin?"

Napoleon turned around slowly, putting a puzzled look on his face. "I beg your pardon?"

"If the missing man were Ilya Kuryakin, would you be leaving then?"

Something odd here... "_Is _he Ilya Kuryakin?" Napoleon asked soberly.

"No," Gibbs snapped, slamming his hand on the table. "He's _my _friend, Donald Mallard. But somebody wants Ilya Kuryakin in exchange for him. You want to explain to me why that is, Mr. Sykes?"

Continue to pretend ignorance? Napoleon debated. But Gibbs had taken out a sheet of paper, encased in a plastic bag, and placed it on the table.

Napoleon limped back over to the table to take a look at it.

We have your man. We will trade him for Ilya Kuryakin.

You have 72 hours to locate him, starting from 0600 tomorrow.

Failure means your man's death.

Any more publicity means your man's death.

You will be contacted.

Napoleon sighed, and sat down.

"Over 30 years ago, there was a certain international law enforcement organization, to which both Ilya Kuryakin and I belonged. Our main adversary was an international criminal organization called Thrush."

"Thrush?" laughed the younger agent. Then, "Is that like SPECTRE?" in a Sean Connery accent. Then, the smile was wiped away instantly and a "Sorry, Boss," was quickly said.

"After several years," Napoleon continued calmly, "we managed to destroy Thrush, and as a result of our success, we were disbanded as well. A change in presidents, ruling political party and foreign policy might have had something to do with it, too.

Ilya and I both retired, and we grew apart. I have not seen him for over 20 years."

"And yet you came here when you thought he'd been kidnapped."

"As I said, he's a friend of mine. Semper fi."

"And now you're prepared to leave."

Napoleon extended his hands. "I can't help you, Agent Gibbs. If I knew where Ilya was, or how to contact him, I wouldn't have had to come here in the first place, would I?"

"You could find out where he is. And I bet you could do it in less than 72 hours."

Napoleon dropped his eyes from Gibbs' laser-like glare, and let his shoulders slump in a defeated fashion. Fussily, he cleaned his glasses with his tie as he gave thought to his best course of action.

Finally, he looked up at Gibbs, who was still glaring, and shrugged meekly. "Very well, Agent Gibbs. I will try to think of how to locate Ilya."

Gibbs leaned forward and the glare became practically incandescent. "You'll do more than just try, Mr. Sykes."

NOTE:

For the second time, I have uploaded multiple chapters in one day, so make sure you read chapters 10 and 11 before moving on to this one, Chapter 12. A few of you may have missed Chapter 8 as well, which was also the first part of a two-story upload day.

I'll be taking a hiatus on this story for a while.


	13. Chapter 13

**12. The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair**

**Part 1. McGee**

While Ziva and Tony had been watching the ODU basketball game, and before Tony and Gibbs had talked with Sykes (AKA, although not to them, Napoleon Solo) the next morning, Agent Timothy McGee had spent the evening driving back to Washington DC with his cargo of material for Abby.

Under normal circumstances, they could have put all the information into a box and sent it air express, but they'd missed the last Air Express deadline that evening, and besides, with the preciousness of this particular cargo, it was best if he never let it out of his sight, anyway. Air Express had never lost one of their shipments yet, but this was no time to give them the opportunity to ruin their perfect record.

McGee liked to drive, especially when he was all alone with no clever quips from Tony, and no wincing from Ziva as she applied invisible brakes. Who was _she_ to get nervous at the way _he_ drove?

As the miles passed by, his mind began to wander. At first he'd been thinking about what could possibly have happened to Ducky…but then he started thinking about what could possibly have happened to a character named Ronald Drallam, who checked into a hotel room during an important scientific conference and then disappeared from a locked room.

McGee's hand began to move toward chest pocket where he kept his digital recorder. Then he stopped, clenched it into a fist. Jesus! Ducky had been kidnapped, and God knew what was happening to him right at this very minute. They…whoever _they_ were, could be torturing him right this very second.

Sure, the note attached to that cassette tape had not promised torture, and since they had been ordered to look for somebody named Ilya Kuryakin, there'd be no need to torture him… he probably _wasn't_ being tortured.

McGee grinned as he replayed that tape in his mind. Ducky had demanded that they upgrade his menu, and they'd complied…good old Ducky. British stiff upper lip as usual. Then his grin faded. The note from the bad guys had been very clear, though. If they didn't find this Kuryakin fellow, Ducky was doomed…

He couldn't use that plot in a book anyway, McGee thought. His readers would never believe that a man could have an exact double. That worked fine in TV shows, when some narcissistic actor wanted to show off his acting chops by portraying two different characters at the same time, like in _Double Impact_ with Jean-Claude van Damme, or …or….that could be _it, _thought McGee. Not some accidental double, but a twin brother… that could be plausible…every young toddler of an actor on TV was actually played by identical twins… people would accept that.

McGee actually managed a smile. What a hoot it would be if Ducky actually _had_ a twin brother…and that's who this Kuryakin guy was…

Not that that could be possible, his thought process continued. After all, Ducky was English and Kuryakin…that was a Russian name if he'd ever heard one…

But Ronald Drallam, now. _He_ would have a twin brother…and one would be genius scientist and the other would be some schmuck who worked a 9 to 5 job, but who'd have to pretend to be his brother…

McGee took out the digital recorder and began brainstorming out loud.

**Part II. McGee and Abby**

As McGee (and indeed, the rest of the NCIS team) had suspected, Abby had never left the office that night. When McGee walked into her lab at 2 am that morning (the morning during which Gibbs and Tony interviewed Sykes (AKA Napoleon Solo), she was there, surfing the web. A sleeping bag on the floor indicated that she'd intended to try to get some sleep while she waited for him to arrive, but she had been too keyed up to do so.

McGee put the box down and Abby hugged him tightly.

"Don't worry, Abby," McGee said. "We're going to find him."

"In 48 hours," Abby said, nodding. "I've been trying to hack into the KGB's computers for the last four hours, with no luck."

McGee's eyes widened. "Not the KGB!"

"Why not?" demanded Abby, her hoarse voice rising. "He's got to be KGB or GNU or something like that, doesn't he, this Kuryakin guy?"

"GRU," McGee murmured.

"GRU," repeated Abby. "Anyway, no luck yet. Don't worry, I've been careful."

"Yes. Well, let's get to work on all this stuff," he opened the lid of the box, "and see what it tells us."

Abby snapped on her white gloves and tensed her fingers into fists. "Right, McGee. Let's get started."


	14. Chapter 14

**14. The Gibbs Says Uncle Affair**

**Part 1. McGee and Abby**

McGee walked back into Abby's lab carrying a Caf-Pow for her and a Pepsi for himself.

Abby accepted the Caf-Pow gratefully and took a long swig.

McGee glanced at his watch. "Gibbs is going to be calling pretty soon, Abby. Are we ready to summarize what we got?"

Abby nodded sharply and McGee followed her over to one of her work benches.

"The cassette tape, that has Ducky's message on it," Abby said, holding up the little black plastic cassette. "A brand made in England thirty years ago, and never exported to the United States."

"And from that we can deduce our kidnappers are British and like to hang on to their old technology."

"Perhaps, McGee," Abby said. She turned and placed the tape into a tape recorder, t hen pressed the start button.

"We hear Ducky's voice," murmured Abby.

"All right. Okay. Let me see here..."

Abby stopped the tape. "Hear that rustle of paper?" she said. "Obviously he's reading from a script."

"Obviously," agreed McGee.

"Or rather, a single piece of paper that he's deliberately playing with. But that doesn't really tell us anything, except that his kidnappers were prepared.

She pressed start again, and smiled almost tearfully as she could imagine Ducky's appearance as he said his next words.

"I'm sorry...I can't read this. This handwriting is atrocious."

Abby stopped the tape again.

"Perhaps not so prepared," she announced. "They had to handwrite the script, instead of typing it up on a computer. Carelessness?"

McGee shrugged. "At least we know we're looking for someone with rotten penmanship."

Abby gave him the eye, then pressed the play button again.

"Just read it," came a different voice.

"Ah ha!" cried Abby, stopping the tape again.

McGee nodded knowledgeably. He'd been with Abby when they'd tested this part of the tape; he knew what she was going to say.

"Whoever that is speaking, is not in the same room with Ducky," said Abby. "And he's not disguising his voice, either. I'm still running it through the database, though."

McGee reflexively glanced over to the little visual aid screen that was checking all known voice-patterns against the voice on the tape.

"He sounds English, too," McGee said. "Received pronunciation, like Rowan Atkinson."

Abby nodded. "Correct. Okay, what's next?"

She started the tape again.

"All right. Let me see.... no...I'm sorry, this handwriting is worse than mine. Good god, how do you expect me to decipher this?"

"No help there," murmured McGee. "He's just complaining about the handwriting. No clues of any kind."

"Unless he's implying that the man's a doctor?" said Abby. "After all, doctors are supposed to have atrocious handwriting."

McGee grimaced. "Well…maybe."

"Yeah," agreed Abby. "Just a maybe. Maybe he's saying that just to get the other guy talking, and so it's not a clue at all."

She hit the Play button again.

"Say you are being treated well."

"He sounds a little bit annoyed there, doesn't he?" laughed Abby. McGee grinned at her. "He sure does."

She started the tape again.

"Oh. All right. Well, yes. Jethro, I am being treated well. Except for the fact that I'm being fed peanut butter sandwiches and my only entertainment is watching _old _television shows..."

"What does he mean by that, I wonder?" said McGee. "Old television shows?"

"He really emphasized the word "old," didn't he?" agreed Abby. "Old TV shows, and peanut butter sandwiches. Well, that proves he's been kidnapped by men, with no women in sight."

"How do you work that out?"

"If his captor was a woman, she'd be giving him decent food to eat, McGee!" Abby said impatiently! "She'd at least be putting pickles on the peanut butter!"

"Nobody puts pickles on their peanut butter, Abby!" argued McGee. She just gave him the eye again, then turned back to the recorder.

"We agreed about the sandwiches." came the other voice.

"That's right. Strike that comment, Jethro. The food is supposed to get better. I..."

"That's enough. Turn it off now."

And there was a loud click as Ducky turned off the tape recorder.

Abby turned it off too.

There was a beep, and they both turned to look at the Voice Matcher. There was no match for that British voice on the tape.

"Well, that tells us who it _isn't_," McGee said ruefully. "A new player, not someone in our radar."

Abby nodded.

Her telephone rang, and she and McGee exchanged glances. They knew it was Gibbs, calling for an update.

Abby hit the speaker button.

"What do you have for me, Abs?"

Abby told him what they'd gleaned from the tape, then moved on to the other information. "There's not much of it, Gibbs. Whoever has snatched Ducky is a pro. The handwriting on that note you received, along with the cassette, it's definitely a man's hand, for all it's printed in block capitals. I ran it through the hand writing database, and didn't get any hits on it, either.

There were no fingerprints on the cassette, or on the tape used to seal the box. The address on the box is a different story. The numbers are clearly written in the British style, just more proof that our kidnapper is English."

"Anything else, Abs," Gibbs said. She didn't like that trace of disappointment in his voice, and bit her lip. But, the truth was the truth. "That's it, Gibbs. We're still trying to figure out who Ilya Kuryakin is. He's not in any databases that we've been able to access to date. The only thing that's coming up is a line of motorcycle accessories!"

"Start getting information on an organization called UNCLE, instead."

"Uncle?"

"UNCLE. United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."

McGee's eyesbrows rose. That sounded like something interesting…

"And someone named Nicholas Sykes. I'm sending you his photo now. Tony snapped a picture surreptitiously just a few minutes ago."

"Who is Nicholas Sykes, Boss?" asked McGee.

"According to him, he used to belong to this organization, UNCLE. They were a crime fighting organization back in the sixties. Ilya Kuryakin was his partner. Some sort of exchange program with the Russians, to combat some kind of criminal organization that had infiltrated most countries."

"You're kidding," said McGee excitedly. "It really exists? A world-wide criminal organization bent on taking over the world? Like the Thousand Eyes of Su-Maru?"

"I don't know what that means," said Gibbs. "This is me you're talking to, not DiNozzo."

"Right, boss. Sorry, boss."

"Anyway, according to Sykes, it _used_ to exist, but they destroyed it. They being UNCLE. After their success, UNCLE was disbanded, and all the agents went their separate ways. Changed their names and disappearing into the fabric of society. Nobody's seen Kuryakin since 1983."

"Do we even know if he's still alive?" asked McGee.

"If nobody's seen him since 1983…" began Gibbs with an edge in his voice…

"Yeah," said McGee quickly. "Obviously we don't know if he's still alive, but we need to find out."

"That's right. So you do some research, and I'll call you back in six hours."

Abby and McGee exchanged glances.

"Right, Gibbs," said Abby. "Six hours."

Gibbs hung up, and Abby took a long sip of Caf-Pow.

"Okay, McGee, let's get to work."


	15. Chapter 15

**The Never Say Uncle Affair**

**Chapter 15**

The Mulberry Retirement and Rest Home, located in the English village of Tibet Magna, had over two hundred residents, both men and women, most of them in their seventies, a few in their eighties, and a very few even in their nineties.

The man who called himself David Steel was in his seventies. He still had a full head of hair, grayish blond, and lips that curved easily into a smile, showing teeth that were still his own.

He was a solitary man, which was something that was hard to be in the Mulberry Retirement Home. The women especially thought he was simply very shy and needed bringing out of himself. After only a year after his arrival, however, he had suddenly and precipitously gone deaf, and even wearing hearing aids in both ears hadn't helped. Women would still cluster around and shout at him, and he would shrug his shoulders and return his attention to his book, until finally they just left him alone.

"The best idea he'd ever had," Steel thought, adjusting the volume on one of the "hearing" aids, so that he could better hear Rachmaninoff.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate female companionship, his testosterone levels were still very high, thank you very much. It was just that, at age 73, he'd seen too many women leave him, he did not want to get attached to anyone ever again.

He had his books…he went into the village of Tibet Magna every afternoon for a game of chess at the local Chess Hall – indeed, one of the villagers son's was a very promising player, almost world class level and he was only 15.

Steel sighed and closed his book. He looked around his living room – his apartment at the retirement home consisted of a small kitchen area, a large living area, and a medium sized bedroom with bath. His musical instruments were in one corner – he was proficient in the bass viol, the English horn and the guitar. That was his only regret with his deafness ruse…he had had to give up playing those instruments.

Steel glanced at his watch. The bus that left for the village every hour on the hour was leaving in ten minutes. He was going to be playing chess today with his protégé, he had better get moving.

The ride on the bus was uneventful. Steel stepped down carefully – he kept himself in shape and indeed, was as fit as a man in his fifties – but still, there was no point in taking chances.

In the Chess Hall, his opponent, Charlie Evans, was already waiting. Steel shook the young man's hand and they sat down.

Usually any game against Charlie was a battle royale. The teen spent minutes poring over each move. Today, he appeared distracted. In addition, in all their other games, he'd been a very straightforward man, looking at people in the face, meeting their gaze… very self confident. Now, he studiously avoided meeting Steel's eyes.

Steel began the end game, a series of moves with which he would inevitably beat Charlie, regardless of what the boy could do, in ten moves. Charlie was well able to see ten moves ahead, and should have seen his inevitable fate and resign. Instead, he continued on until the end, not even seeing the checkmate until Steel made the move.

Charlie stared at his imprisoned king, and laughed shortly. "You win, Mr. Steel," he said, not looking at him.

"You're too good of a player to have lost like that, Charlie," Steel said. "I can tell that there is something wrong. What is it?"

"It's hard to explain," Charlie said, still avoiding his gaze.

"Charlie," said Steel, "I have lived for over 70 years. There's nothing that you can tell me that I haven't heard before, and there's nothing that can't be helped as long as you share the problem. I'm here, I'm listening, let me help."

"Well," Charlie rubbed his nose, "I was walking down Finch Street a couple of days ago. I stepped out into the crosswalk without looking, and a car almost ran me down. I jumped out of the way, and when I did I fell and hit my head. I wasn't hurt bad or anything, but ever since then….I've seen things."

"What kind of things?"

"Well…" Charlie looked at him very briefly, then looked away again.

"It's people. When I look at people …I see things."

"Alright, Charlie. Alright. What kind of things?"

Charlie looked at him again. This time, for several seconds, with concentration. Then he said, "Napoleon. I see Napoleon."

David Steel's face froze. "Where do you see him?" he asked carefully.

Charlie was looking away again. "He's standing, above your head, in a cloud."

"How do you know its Napoleon?"

Charlie shrugged. "I've seen enough pictures of him."

Steel rubbed an eyebrow. "You're telling me you see Napoleon _Bonaparte_ above my head."

"Yeah. Napoleon Bonaparte. He's…he's moving. It looks like he's calling for help. 'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse."

"That's Richard III."

"Whatever. It's Napoleon, calling for help."

"Well….my goodness," said David Steel.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you," said Charlie, miserably.

"Not at all. I happen to know a man named Napoleon. Charlie…my goodness, Charlie, you now have a tremendous gift."

"I just want it to go away," said Charlie. "I can't look at people, without seeing things. It's horrible. I feel like I'm going crazy."

"Charlie, you're not going crazy. You are not the first person this has happened to…although I admit the only cases I have heard about took place in Russia. There are ….psychic institutes…. Where you can go to get tested and get help."

"And get treated like a freak?" demanded Charlie.

"Not at all. You have the power – you will be in charge. Look, if you don't want to seek out such a facility on your own…I can help you. I'd be happy to help you. After I get back from helping my friend."

"You actually know a guy who dresses like Napoleon?"

David Steel, aka Ilya Kuryakin, smiled his sweet smile. "Had he been an actor, I'm sure my friend would have made a great Napoleon. There's more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio."

"What?"

Steel waved a hand. "Your visions are a mystery, Charlie. A mystery that professionals will have to help you with. But I believe that a friend of mine is in trouble, and I've got to go help him. So I really do need to curtail our conversation."

He stood up, and Charlie rose also.

"But…you're like…old," said Charlie.

Steel looked up at Charlie, who at age 15 was already as tall as he was. A knee to the groin or two fingers to the eyes would quickly put him in his place, but he didn't have time to dally.

"Youth is overrated, Charlie, as you'll find out yourself, 60 years from now. Now really, I must go. I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."


End file.
